


Breederstuck

by orphan_account



Series: Breederstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Character Death, Dehumanization, Diseases, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, FUCKING RAPE PEOPLE, Graphic Descriptions of Rape, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT OR ARE TRIGGERED BY IT THIS IS NOT THE STORY FOR YOU, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, NOT EVEN TAKING ANY CHANCES, Non Consensual, Other, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Squick, Vomiting, Xeno, all this horrible shit has a point it's not just 'lolrape', emetophobia warning, i am literally putting every non-con tag on here ever, i mean it's awful but, it's funny because now this sounds way more awful than it is, serious xeno, terrible terrible things and how they are dealt with, we're talking trolls-are-basically-anthropomorphic-bugs-with-wings kind of xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trolls are not humans. They don't think. They are tools.<br/>We use trolls because they make good weapons. Their freakish reproduction system is perfect for telling which one's will be good for fighting, and which are only good for making more trolls.<br/>They cannot speak.<br/>They cannot think.<br/>They do not feel.</p><p>This is what you've been told since your first day on the job, and honestly?<br/>It's all a load of bullshit.</p><p> </p><p>An AU where everything is terrible and no one is happy, ever.<br/>This fic is NOT for the faint of heart.<br/>You have been warned.</p><p>[ON HIATUS FOR THE FORSEEABLE FUTURE]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dave: Fondly recall the beginning.

You peer down through your mask and think, not for the first time, that trolls are really nasty little things.

They're freshly hatched, having been alive for scarcely a week before being taken away from the grub handlers and dumped on you. It's your first actual day on the job, and you've got to make certain that you don't fuck something up, or it'll be your last day on any job. The little beasts scuttle across the floor as quickly as they can with their chubby little bodies, falling over and gamboling about on the uneven ground of the grub room. They've done their best to replicate a troll brooding cavern and you've got to hand it to them; they did pretty damn well. It's dim and hot and the walls are covered in some kind of luminescent slime, which the things toddle over to and gorge on every now and then. The air in the room is stale and overwhelmingly vomit-scented, just thew way trolls like it, and the mask on your face is the only thing keeping you from heaving until your organs come out.

Okay. First thing's first, identify which one's which.

No one knows how the grub handlers name the wigglers, although there is a vague understanding among the more scientific of you that it isn't just 'first thing to pop into your head wins.' They simply list the names and the colors and pass them on when the time comes for them to give the grubs up. Each of you new recruits have gotten at least nine grubs, and you were enough of a special snowflake to get twelve. Your future depends on all of them surviving until first pupation, at which point you'll be given a new batch. One day you might get promoted, but probably not. You take out the list when most of them are either eating or asleep, and start checking the names. Right off the bat, you notice a growing pattern.

Bright red. Jade. Tyrian goddamn purple. They gave you the rarest, least-expendable, most problematic grubs to care for. Great. You can do this. It's not even like you've had to do anything yet, all you're doing is identifying. God, stop getting ahead of yourself, re-establish your fucking poker face this instant and do what they're paying you for. The red ones are Karkat and Aradia, the one with the awkward horns Tavros, the weird mutated one Sollux, the green Nepeta and the rarer jade Kanaya, the fat one Terezi, the blue ones Vriska and Equius, purples Gamzee and Eridan, and the tyrian Feferi.

You are the new guy, why the hell did they give you so many of them? Clearly there is some form of conspiracy afoot.

Removing yourself from your corner, you decide to intervene between Vriska and Karkat, who seem ready to rip each other apart. Before you successfully separate them, Vriska opens its jaws and sinks its tiny fangs into your gloves. While the skin remains unbroken, it hurts like a motherfucker, and you recoil almost instantly. The grub gives you a look that's half vacant grub-stare and half malicious satisfaction. Yeesh. You feel pretty damn sorry for whoever has to deal with that one after it pupates. Similar pity is reserved for those who have to deal with Gamzee (who tried not once, not twice, but four times to bite a chunk out of poor Nepeta,) Equius (whose disregard for anyone's general safety ended with you having to seclude him before he trampled Tavros,) and Karkat (who just seems to enjoy attacking any- and everyone.) You knew from your training that trolls were pretty violent, but fuck. If these are just the babies, what are the adults like?

  


All in all though, it's pretty easy work, playing freaky bug-alien babysitter.

You learned their habits pretty quickly, the pecking order having been established within the first week. You had them for a whole two years before you had to sort them, before first pupation would take them away from you and show you just how awful this entire business was. Before you had to sort them into their adult positions and learn just how badly you had condemned the poor things.  
But that's all in the future. Right now it's just you and a bunch of rowdy grubs, blissfully unaware of what life was going to throw your way.  
After first pupation, it would be ten years until you saw any of them again, shortly after they had gone through their second and final pupation, and long after you had forgotten all about them. Ten years of other grubs would erase them, but you would remember.  
And you would regret ever seeing them again.


	2. Tavros: Try to understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's best to listen to yourself.  
> Not that it would have done you much good, to be honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that part where I said this was going to get worse?  
> Consider it worse.

You sat inside your comb with three other trolls, trolls you've known since grubhood. The humans had poked and prodded at you four far more than they typically do. Looking in your ears, checking your limbs and wings, even going so far as to touch you between your legs on your seedflaps, though for what you really had no idea. Once they were satisfied with whatever it was they were looking for, they split up the massive group you all had been in and lead you off in different directions, much to the protests of some of the others. But you were happy; you were still with your friends, the ones you had known the longest at any rate. The humans lead the four of you into the cavern-like room, with the walls covered in weak, soft stone and the lights dimmed enough not to bother any of you but still bright enough for them.

They left you almost immediately.

  
The humans never leave you alone, ever. There's always at least one of them hanging around, even when the older trolls are there for you. It's odd not having them there, and it makes you a bit nervous to be honest. Then again, most things make you nervous so you simply curl up next to Aradia for the time being and wait for them to come back. They always come back at some point. You eventually fell asleep waiting, only awakening to the sound of crashing. The others must have heard it too, because each of you in turn began to awaken, sleepily lifting heads and peering around.

There again. This time, you identify the sound as the crash of something heavy on the metal of the corridors. Something in the pit of your stomach tells you something's not right but over the years you've grown used to quelling it, so you simply shove it down and focus on waking yourself up. The crashing continues, echoing louder each time before cutting off sharply. A brief pause, and then the door slides open again.

You should have listened to your stomach.

  
Utterly massive trolls, the likes of which you have never seen before, come thundering into the room shrieking and trilling. A few of them linger at the door but most advance into the room, stumbling on their own feet. Their claws are extended, fangs bared, and though you don't see any reason for it, their bulges are out and fully erect. Karkat is the first of you to react, jumping to his feet and hissing, backing away from the huge trolls. You follow, if only because you're more than a little afraid yourself, and soon all four of you are up on all fours, slowly moving away. The huge things' dull eyes fall on the four of you, and the first one charges. Your friends are up in a flurry of wings and claws, scrambling their way backwards in the air as fast as they could, leaving you to shriek and flutter your own shriveled appendages in vain. You have never been able to fly; your wings never properly grew in and remained weak, nubby things long after your peers had mastered flight. Never had you wished you could fly more than then, when the troll effortlessly slammed you down onto the ground.

Of course you fought, any troll would have fought such an attack, but you were small and frail where this beast was massive and powerful and all your struggling only earned you a twisted leg when it grabbed you awkwardly. Its other claws came up between your legs and you squeaked in protest, feeling one of the huge things spread your seedflap and go burrowing into your nook. It burned, having something that big stuffed in there when you had never even touched yourself, but the worst was still yet to come. You slitted your eyes and allowed them to look at your attacker once again; the bulge between its legs must have been at least twice the size of its claw, and even that was stretching you. Very suddenly, everything clicked. It was going to spit you alive on that thing. You began struggling anew for all of five seconds, during which you realized moving only made the claw inside you burn more. A whimper rose in your throat as the claw retreated, covered in copper, knowing that at least some of that wasn't just lubrication from your nook. It grabbed both your legs and wrenched them open viciously, your nook exposed for all to see, before ramming its hips forward. The bulge mashed hard against your pelvis, and you cried out in pain, but it wouldn't fit. On the second try, it pulled you a little closer before ramming against you once more, and this time the bulge managed to sink in from pure force.

Before that, you had never known real pain. Not like this. The burning was intense enough to bring tears to your eyes, streams running down your face as your body yielded to the huge thing and allowed it in a few more inches. You screamed your throat raw but the troll kept going, managing to fit a third of its length inside you before thrusting. Your nook, elastic as it was meant to be, was almost ready to tear around the massive intruder inside you, which thrusted and smashed against your insides as the beast above you growled and kept you pinned down. Worse yet, your own bulge began to peek out of it's sheath; just the tip, but enough to start a fresh round of tears. Your head spun from pain and bizarre, unbidden pleasure and you nearly blacked out when the beast thrust into you as deep as it could go and released inside you. Thick, dark blue fluid gushed into you, cold and awful, and your abdomen swelled until you could take no more of it, the rest splattering onto the floor as the other troll pushed you off it's bulge and went charging off towards another monster, that one having been in the process of raping Feferi.

And that was only the first one on that horrible, horrible night. When it was over, you had been stuffed full of more colors than you could name, your seedflap couldn't close and your nook was stretched wide enough for your claw to go in without you feeling it. You could barely make a sound, having screamed until your voice had given out on you and you tasted blood in your throat. Your friends were no better off than you; Karkat's left wing hung in pieces on its back and its leg was bent the wrong way, Aradia had clumps of their mane torn out and claw marks down their back, and Feferi's eye was swollen shut and their arm wouldn't support its own weight, let alone its body. The humans returned not long after, to fix your serious wounds and to cram food and water into you; not a single one of you could have eaten if you wanted to, and their forcing only ended in you heaving up everything you managed to swallow.

Mercifully, the humans didn't allow the drones back the next day, or the day after that. No, it was a full week before they returned, and by then you understood exactly what had happened. You had lost the genetic lottery and been deemed too 'feminine'- weak, small, or sensitive- for any purpose or task other than breeding more of your kind. You would be confined to your comb for the rest of your natural life, and your only interaction with other trolls would be from your caretakers, your combmates, and the drones.

 

You were a broodmother, and the day you lost your innocence was the last day of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R is your best friend.


	3. John: Inspect the damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hasn't been a full 24 hours, and this already has half the views that Your Name Is: Dave Strider has.  
> Fandom, you crazy.

  
You are no doctor, but your job depends on these creatures, and as such you'll just have to do what you can and ask someone better to help you with what you can't. While you have managed to calm the poor thing down, it came at the expense of drugging the crimson troll to hell and back and isolating it, neither of which would be any good for it's pregnancy. You pass your hand lightly over the battered chitin of Karkat's abdomen and receive a weak hiss in response, but the broodmother didn't have enough fight left in it after the sopor had taken effect. Repeating the gesture, you feel around for any abnormal lumps or anything that had been broken. Thankfully finding nothing, you move on to check the rest of it's worn body.

Karkat was a dangerous, yet sadly all-too-common case. He, and you had a bad habit of thinking of him as 'he' even though troll gender was a bit indeterminate, was one of the many who really should have been assigned to a different role, having a temper far too vicious for a broodmother but a body less than half the size of any drone. The crimsonblooded troll seemed to detest his fate, and rather than become a breeding slave like the others he made certain to beat himself in the abdomen to destroy any and all forming eggs. The few he has managed to bring to term have come as a result of what you're forced to do to him now; chain him up so tight he can't move and manually inseminate him. Anyone with eyes could tell it was an awful idea to breed him in the first place, as his temper or size or both would likely breed true, creating even worse trolls than you started with but you prefer it to the other option.  
You've been with him far too long to see him culled.

"I wouldn't have to do this if you would just leave yourself alone," you mutter to him, knowing full well he won't understand. He responds by chirping haughtily in the back of his throat, curling his lip and spitting at you. You jerk back for a moment, and not for the first time are forced to remind yourself that he's- that it's- just a troll. Trolls don't speak English any more than you speak dolphin. It soothes you a little to remember that Karkat spits on anyone he doesn't like overmuch, which was basically everyone. You peer into his eyes, contemplating, and nearly faint to see they're widening again. The sopor is wearing off, and you don't have much time before he starts having some kind of freak attack again. Cursing your stupidity, you retrieve his muzzle from where you left it on the ground and fit it over his face as best you can. Despite your questioning, you still haven't been able to get your higher-ups to pay for a small enough muzzle, so you've been making due with a few straps cobbled together from some old drone muzzles. It never stays on long, but it'll be there long enough for you to check his restraints and get the hell out of there.

As awful as you think it may be to keep him alone so much, you have to for his and his combmate's sake. Karkat, had he been born a little bigger, might have scooted by as a breeder caretaker, and while he'd still have likely been miserable it would have been better than being stuck in solitary with eggs he didn't want to birth. You know their breeding hierarchy is a built-in thing, and without it they wouldn't have survived, but you've seen trolls like Karkat far too many times before, often in even worse conditions. They showed signs of full-blown insanity, sometimes attacking and raping their combmates to try and establish themselves as dominant. Trolls like Karkat got culled, and that was all there was to it, but you're going to defy his psychotic nature as long as you can. Dumb as it may well be, you've gotten attached to the little guy since you transferred here, and while you know one day he's going to be little more than a crimson mess for the euthanasia squad to clean up, you're going to do everything in your power to make sure that day stays as far away as possible.

  
It's the least you can do for him, considering everything that's happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R is appreciated.


	4. Nepeta: Pull these two together.

You don't enjoy your job very much, but it's what you have to do and no one really cares what you want anyway. The drones are big and stupid, but they're also ridiculously dangerous and someone needs to keep them under control. That someone in this case happens to be you, and you'll do well to just let it go and get on with your job. Knowing full well it's probably the worse way to do things, you visit Equius first. The blueblood is only your secondary charge but you enjoy its company, even if said company only happens to be the heaviness of its breathing. It's one of the few that needs to be kept constantly sedated, as apparently it has some form of mutation resulting in mutant strength. You sigh, knowing full well there never used to be these kinds of issues, but it isn't your concern. Judging how badly the humans screw over the breeders with their tampering isn't what you're kept alive to do.

Equius doesn't really notice you're there, the same as always, but you smooth out its mane with your claws and whisper to it same as always. You tell it about your day, and what the other parts of the building are like, and how outside the human's moon is up and changing in the way that moons are wont to do, and the drone just sort of drifts in and out as you talk to it. It's okay though, you know it can't do much more. You make certain Equius actually manages to get its food down instead of just drooling it back out again, and you make sure it doesn't choke on the water you give it. Calmed by its presence, you take your cloth and wipe clean the grime-crusted chitin of its exoskeleton, which was caked in blood and leavings and other, less savory fluids. You have to be careful when you wipe down the back, narrowly avoiding the sopor-filled IVs at the base of its neck. The rowdiest Equius ever got was when you went over the injured horn, which had been shattered by a particularly troublesome broodmother, and even then the drone only groaned, never more. With the calmer of your charges taken care of, you take the longest route possible to the other drone in your care, dreading every step. Still, even with your slowed pace you get there sooner than you'd like, and the doors part before you to reveal the indigoblooded drone.

Gamzee is.. you don't know what's wrong with it, just that it should have been euthanized a long time ago. Even now with the sopor being pumped directly into it's body the drone stares at you, fully alert and completely stunned by your appearance. Every time you show up it's every bit as shocked as the last time, as if the outside of the room were some dark abyss that would devour you whole. And every single day, the drone would try to talk to you. Having started with a limited vocabulary, it never got far enough to learn your name- only what the humans referred to you as- and as such seems to be under the impression your name was She. Gamzee would see you come in, bounce around like a juvenile and rattle the chains it had undoubtedly snapped by that  point, and wrack its vocal chords to pronounce the simple word. It was a hassle to calm Gamzee down when the drone got itself worked up, taking at the very least two of your spare needles of concentrated sopor to calm the drone down, its tolerance level only seeming to grow higher with each passing day. It was almost impossible to feed the thing, and literally impossible to clean it with the way Gamzee wriggled around even after you'd calmed it down. The worst of your problems however, came when it go itself well and truly worked up, indigo bulge slipping out and growing erect.

This is the part you hate the most, if only because of how utterly impossible it is to get a drone off. Many a caretaker has died because the dumb things can't tell the difference between a broodmother and any other troll, and try mounting them regardless. If the bulge didn't kill them, trying to pass the huge eggs with a sub-par nook certainly would. Gamzee has tried this with you exactly once, and you made quite certain to claw the drone hard enough where it hurt that even it's feeble, small think pan would remember that it was a bad idea. Still, it's your job and you have to help the poor thing, knowing full well that no one else will or would. You ignore the bulge itself completely, instead focusing on the drone's underused nook. As tenderly as you can manage, you slip a few of your claws inside the tight hole and pump them in and out until the indigoblood is trilling and whimpering with each slide, finally culminating in its climax and a veritable flood of wasted indigo seed gushing into the drain of the enclosure. Your peers have told you the humans use it anyway, for fussy broodmothers who don't allow the drones to breed them, but you've never really paid much attention to their gossip. It isn't your concern what the humans do.

You know what the humans are doing though, and how it's going to turn out. Breeding bigger and more powerful drones, breeding smaller and more docile broodmothers.. Between the two extremes, the poor things would end up killing each other. Your charges together have accidentally crushed at least five of the unfortunate trolls, and likely badly damaged the rest. The drone's stupidity was worsening with each generation, and if your fellow caretakers in the broodmother divisions are anything to go by, the little things are practically tearing themselves and each other apart, the only reason being they haven't got anything else to do. Their little project is doomed to fail, and the only ones who will be worse off are your people. The humans, after all, aren't the ones being holed up. But it doesn't matter what you think, or anyone else really.  
  
You're here to do a job, and it doesn't consist of thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R is your best friend.


	5. Rose: Regret nothing.

You haven't sat down in over a week, but there is no lamenting it. You don't have the time; there are people to gather, equipment to organize, listings to check and more, and it seems you're the only one able to do anything reliably. At least before, you had a break every now and then but no, you're _needed_ now, and you have a _responsibility._ Anyone who thinks you give a damn about your so-called 'responsibilities' either deserves to be flogged or in dire need of a wakeup call, and you don't necessarily care in which order. You just want today to be over so you can go home, read a nice book, and ignore the guilt gnawing at your worn conscience. It's somewhat hard for other people to believe you have one though, what with your job, but that's their problem, not yours. After all, you didn't specifically ask to be on the euthanasia squad; it was what your superiors had decided on after going through your application, and there is no denying your employers. Not if you want any chance at another job.

Your current assignment is a drone, unsurprisingly. The drones are constantly being put down nowadays for any-old reason; too aggressive, too powerful, too huge to actually breed, the list goes on and on. In your opinion such abominations of nature should never have been allowed to exist in the first place; you have seen (and subsequently eliminated) creatures who were so absurdly built that they could scarcely lift their own limbs. Common sense would tell you they were unfit to have grown as old as they were, that they should have been culled long before second pupation kicked in, but who takes notice these days? No, you'd just be seen as nitpicky, and that's the last thing you want to be around here. Your higher-ups don't take kindly to scrutiny; it's almost as much of a death-sentence as free thought.

It's not just you this time, thank god, you have the support of the remainder of your four-man squad. They're all new to the job and it shows; the brunette on your right looks ready to faint and he's checked his stunner at least twice in the last five minutes, and the dark-haired girl behind him is sweating enough to make her hair wilt. You don't blame the poor things either. The beast next up on the chopping block is a blueblood, for the 'inconvenience' of murdering three broodmothers and several caretakers. You don't bother asking just how anyone could differentiate between murder and an accidental squashing or sobriety-provoked freakout, as it isn't likely you'd get any answer worth hearing. It's all a numbers game anyway; the ones that kill more than they've sired are more trouble than they're worth, and are subsequently dealt with. The names typically don't register in your mind- after all, no one will be using it after you're done so why bother- but for some reason you took the time to memorize its information. Vriska, D-8612 Cerulean, coded black.

You're almost certain whomever wrote this never realized just what 'coded black' really meant.

It isn't long before your party manages to enter the enclosure, and as the doors slide shut behind you you're pretty sure sweaty-hair actually does piss herself. Drones, as a general rule, are huge but this one isn't frightening because it's large. It looks like it should have barely cleared front-liner height, only twice the size of the average person and decidedly less bulky from insufficient nutrition. The thing's all mane and sinew and claw, and currently bunching all its lack of size into a divebombing that's far too smooth to have not been practiced. The menace is stopped by more than a few chains all but enveloping its limbs, but not before a less senior member of your squad goes out cold, crumpling to the floor. Even despite the bindings holding it fast to the wall the drone shrieks and lashes out, claws akimbo but nowhere near far enough to hit either of your squad members, who have backed themselves as far away from the beast as possible. With a sickening jolt you realize the hits weren't meant for any of you; a good few of the metal links binding the drone have clattered to the floor, useless.

You bark out a command to the brunette, who fumbles with his stunner momentarily before shooting, managing to hit the thing in the eye. But for some reason, it doesn't trill or shriek the way a troll should. Instead it screams, an awful too-human howling that will haunt you for days to come. You quickly cut it off with two shots to the throat and one misaimed blow to the shoulder, cerulean blooming bright on its skinny throat and flowing into the knotty, unkempt mane. The beast sways for a minute, holding your gaze with half glazed drone-glare and half something you can't quite pin down (drones aren't smart enough to be indignant, right?) before collapsing face-down in the filth of its enclosure, convulsing slightly before finally growing still.

It's a while before any of you move. Most of your time is spent either watching your squadmates back away from the slowly warming body and trying to reconcile what you just witnessed with everything you've actually gone through. Trolls, and by extension, drones, do not think like people. They cannot put aside their bloodlust, they do not have pride, and they most certainly do not scream. Even if by some magic such things could be true you.. You cannot tell anyone. It would be social, and perhaps literal, suicide. Collecting your emotions and putting your leader face back on, you order your fellow members of the euthanasia squad to let in the cleanup crew and take care in filing their reports. Anything they might have seen, or though they had seen, was likely just their compassion playing tricks on them and if their reports did not match up you would not be the one getting in trouble. And with that, you let yourself out to go take care of your next job, with a different squad. You have quite a bit to do before your break, if you even get one today, and your list cannot take a backseat to your inner musings.

  
There's no rest for the wicked, after all.


	6. Kanaya: Commence caretaking duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I'll learn how to write.  
> One day I'll learn how to update semi-regularly.
> 
> (My beta hasn't replied to me yet, so this is unbeta'd and likely makes no sense.)

You take a sort of sick pleasure in helping your charges; the humans have taken in more and more of their own kind, and troll caretakers are fewer and further between with each sweep. You fear obsoletion, and with it the slow, painful death bestowed upon non-drones, and so take joy in every little opportunity to prove yourself. The humans of the complex already see you as little more than an automaton, bound to their will, so you figure you may as well give them what they require of you. Although to be fair, your current mission does not come at the request of your higher-ups.

The human by the name of John is a rather interesting one, you think; he connects quite closely to your charges, calling them by name and actively working for their health. It is by his will that you're even working today, as he's requested you to check the warmblooded broodmothers in your joint care, concerned for their collective wellbeing. Of course, he said it slower and with less words, but he isn't wholly to blame for not realizing you're as intelligent as he is. But that's enough musing for now, you've got a job to do for the first time in days and you're determined to do it right.

As the door slides open the fetid stench of a breeder's comb washes over you; any other creature would find it revolting, possibly enough to induce vomiting, but to you it simply fades into the back of your mind, almost as though it were part of you. The weak things lie curled against themselves, Tavros with Aradia and Karkat huddled up unhappily by itself, devoid of the clutch it had the last time you'd seen it. It snaps as you approach, ruby eyes both blank and irate, but the crimsonblood gladly takes the food you give it and messily devours it while you check for any problems. A few cuts and bruises, painful-looking but healing well. Nothing out of the ordinary, then.

  
The other two, however, are quite a bit more of an issue.

  
Aradia cradles the brownblood's upper half in her claws, clutching tighter as you approach, and even with your ability to block it out the scent of disease is heavy around both of them. The maroon's eyes are more tired than usual, dull and lifeless, and as you approach it snarls and pulls Tavros closer. You flatten your wings and thrust your chest forward, leaving the softer chitin of your belly vulnerable, and with a sort of lingering wariness it allows you nearer, though still not letting Tavros leave its arms. The brown breeder doesn't seem to register your presence; it almost appears to be in a trance, eyes blankly fixed on some point on the horizon. Its breathing is shallow and sour, and you frown a little.

You are not a doctor. You don't quite have the capacity to go rooting around in anything's organs, troll or otherwise, though you have watched a few die and helped them along their way. Still this, whatever this is, is worrying. Tentatively, you offer the pathetic little thing a morsel of food; it makes a vague sort of snatch at it, weak and faltering, before its claws return to resting on the ground. The stubs of its wings give a halfhearted flap and both you and Aradia look more and more worried by the moment. Neither of them can speak- the humans had no need to socialize them- but you get the feeling Tavros has been neglected for quite some time. The maroon shifts under its burden and Tavros cries out, wiggling and causing itself more pain in the process. Whatever this is, it needs to be seen to as quickly as you can manage it.

Leaving the rest of the food by Aradia (you don't bother checking them right now; whoever you manage to grab hold of will hopefully do so themselves, and the maroon happens to be rather occupied at the moment), you hurry out of the doors and towards the humans' quarters, hoping that the John human hasn't been pulled off anywhere as of right now. He'll be able to get help; no matter how good you are, it won't change the fact that your higher-ups won't listen to the broken, slurred words of a frenzied troll. Better to get in trouble for interrupting a worker than annoying someone important.

  
You can't save them, but you hope to hell and back that you find someone who can. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R is appreciated!


	7. Aradia: Defend combmate.

  
You think for a moment about how much you loathe the green one. You don't know its name, or really anything past the fact that it's a caretaker and not a breeder, and that's quite enough for you. Striding up into your comb like the interfering busybody it is, just a pretty pawn for the humans to direct. Lucky-born, just like everyone else who walks in here, having the nerve to pity you and your combmates as if their pity will help. But you leave off on that train of though as Tavros begins squirming slightly under you, its body shuddering with pain and weakness. You're not sure what's wrong to be honest, although at least its sick in the body and not mind, like Karkat.  
  
You'd have killed it if it was another Karkat.  
  
The brown troll smells worse than the rest of you do, sour and wrong, like its rotting from the inside out. You should be shunning the other broodmother; you could weaken and die as well, breathing in its hideous scent but you don't. You can't. Some unknown instinct buried deep inside your blood thumper won't let you. It looks so weak, so thin and corpselike that you couldn't forgive yourself if you left Tavros alone for a moment. So you haven't. Instead you've knelt on the filthy ground and held your combmate as best you could, trying to comfort the other in what were almost certainly its final days. Sick breeders got culled rather than healed; there's always more of you, after all. You churr bitterly and accidentally wake up your other, less agreeable combmate.

The tiny red breeder chitters in agitation, rolling over and fixing you with a look that couldn't be anything but pure loathing, teeth bared and wings sawing up and down. It hates you, of course, but somewhat moreso than it hates everything else. You, after all, spend most of your time near it. Irritated with how you haven't flinched from its display of anger, it begins stalking over. It really is a puny thing, not much bigger than a human with nubby little grub horns, but ever since your first breeding it's been trying to establish itself as a dominant. You kind of hate Karkat, on the occasions where you care enough about it to acknowledge its existence.

Once the crimson breeder starts prodding at Tavros however, you definitely start to care. You snarl and swat the other's claw away, setting Tavros to the floor as gently as possible before butting the other away with your horns. It screeches in indignance and tries to scratch your throat, almost reaching before you manage to swat it away again. Your claws dig into the junction of its shoulder, splattering bright red blood but otherwise not causing the other much pain. Slowly, purposefully, you push it back away from Tavros so the two of you can fight properly.  
As soon as you're a safe enough distance away you lunge at Karkat, claws aimed for the throat, teeth bared in anger. The red breeder has never liked Tavros, who didn't react to its aggression or anger, and now that the other was sick it saw fit to off it. Its back legs batter hard against your belly, thankfully void of eggs, and before you can scratch it once again it lunges up and jams its fangs into your shoulder, too short to reach your throat. You cuff the mutant hard on the side of the head, enough to stun, and hop backward off it, ignoring the impotent screeching of the red-blooded broodmother.

Tavros is still just as you left it, breathing shallowly on the ground and shaking. With great difficulty the brownblood heaves itself upward and limps a foot or so away before collapsing. Its body convulses once more and this time it throws up, shuddering and heaving up what little its body can produce. You almost want to be sick yourself, but with effort you manage to hold off, crawling over to your combmate and sitting awkwardly next to it, not wanting to touch Tavros lest you put it through more pain. Powerless as you are to do anything, you reluctantly wish the greenblooded caretaker would come back.

As it happens, you sort of get it.

Two humans and some trolls come pouring through the doors, the one human you recognize talking animatedly to the other, who doesn't seem to be listening much. The strange one says something to the trolls and they roughly haul Tavros up off the floor, the brownblood screeching and retching in pain. Furious, you make to claw at one of them- _they're hurting it, it'll die, stop it_ \- but before you can the other human swoops in and jabs you with a needle. Lethargy spreads through your limbs and you slump to the floor, artificially calmed by the green ooze in the needle as they take your combmate away, likely for good, with the only thing to remember Tavros by being the smell of bile.

And then the drug finishes its rush through your system, your loathing the only thing you feel before you drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R is your friend.


	8. Terezi: Form your strategy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A person commented on how linear things were going and I decided to be purposely obtuse :>  
> Have a brief intermission with Terezi.

 

Although your creation was not the aim of the Alternia Project, as you have heard the humans call it, you are nevertheless essential to their desires. You and your ilk are the lifeblood of this facility; neither breeder nor caretaker nor soldier, but wanderer, destined to do whatever was needed most for whoever needed it most. Acting as errand beast and guard dog to humans means you have failed in your duty to your fellow trolls, and you hate it. You hate everything about this place. But very soon, the balance of justice will be restored.

 

Very soon, you will be free.

 

You think to yourself as you ruffle through files few other trolls would be able to read, that humans are quite arrogant as a species. Their classified information is trivial for you to obtain (although, you admit, not exactly legal), and even with your admittedly weak grasp on any one of their languages you manage to sift through the encoded information and get what you need. They will be going back up soon, to Alternia, undoubtedly to steal away more of your people. And you know, even before you finish reading the file, that you have to be on that ship. Of course it won't be allowed; trolls are never allowed to leave the facility. It puts too much on the line. But then, rules have to be bent for the common good. And you won't be alone.

You almost jump into flight when a human clears their throat behind you. No one else was supposed to be in here, or near here- including you. You turn around and slowly build up your case in your head as the human comes into view. You've seen this one before; pale yellow hair and skin white like the walls, with its- with his, humans are strange about that, visor tinted pointlessly in the already dark room. "Launch reports? Been thinking of taking a trip myself, to be honest with you." His voice is muffled and tinny through the mask and you wonder briefly why he doesn't take it off- unlike the breeders you are perfectly clean. He laughs slightly but it sounds different than you think it should, harsh and bitter. When you don't respond he nods at the papers cradled in your claws. "I'll keep quiet about that if you help me out with something. I need you to get me into the breeding combs. Permanently."

Such a breach of security would certainly get you killed were anyone to find out. You tilt your head to the side, considering him. You could just kill him now; likely no one would notice yet another wayward grub caretaker gone missing, but something about this human strikes an odd chord in your brain. You know him, but  _how_?

He's talking again, although you only catch the end of it. "I can help you. Don't give me that look, I'm not asking in. As shitty its quality right now, I like living. But you and I both know I have more authority in this place than you ever will." You grumble a little, because he's right, but return almost immediately to considering him.  _Who is this human..?_

 On autopilot and with a lack of any other real options, you hold your claws sideways to your chest in agreement. He motions for you to replace the papers so the two of you can get out of here; your time is running thin. Outside the door you are met with the remains of the gory diversion your accomplice set up earlier, and remember you'll probably never see the other troll again. Milky green blood is still puddled on the floor but the corpse has been cleaned up- likely a few unlucky broodmothers would be seeing Thanos again with their next meal. You huff, suddenly irritated, and stalk away from the human who, thankfully, sees fit to do the same. In two days' time, he will be a breeder caretaker. In less than a sweep, the human ship will launch, on its way back to defile Alternia further. 

But you have a plan.

You make your way down quite a few twisting halls and back to the drone's floor, passcard opening any door set before you. You're allowed back here, after all. A few more doors and you're standing before one of the largest drones in the facility, an enormous indigo and possibly the only 'success' the place has ever seen. Even now the thing is completely awake, pacified but not lulled by the sopor coursing through its bloodstream. You have no doubts of it's destructive power; even without its size its teeth, claws, and horns are all vicious enough to cut through bone. You've made quite certain of it, as difficult as this one is when it comes to caretaking. And it isn't the only one you've visited in your many rounds; even broodmothers have been subject to your specific brand of care. 

 

Oh yes, you have a plan. And in less than one sweep's time, you and your horde will escape this facility or die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R is appreciated.


	9. Jade: Break the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, what I've decided to do is finish this out as best I can and then. Redo it. Which probably doesn't make much sense but it works for me.
> 
> Also, heed the new tags.

 

You don't deal with breeders as a rule. You are, in fact, a doctor unlike a surprising number of your colleagues, and as such you are one of a special few that works very, very little. That little paradox comes about from the simple fact that if a troll gets sick, there are 15 more to take its place at any one time, and all you really do is give vaccinations to the newborns and recently pupated. Breeders are a waste of resources, time, and effort to heal, and as such you have not helped one in several years. While you can't say there's too much to do the way the others can, you've repeated that particular speech more than once to many a distraught caretaker, human and troll alike.

Which is why you're a little confused as to why you've got a broodmother in your quarantine comb.

It's not so much a suspicion as a certainty that you'll be worse than fired if anyone happens to find out about this, but with all John's wheedling and worry you ended up promising to check the troll in question just to shut him up. The thing looks roughed up all right, though whether it's sorry state is all due to comb conditions or the rather graceless handling it received coming here you can't say just yet. You're not even sure if it'll make it through the examination the way it is now; it's slumped on the exam table, eyes lidded and listless and goodness, what happened to it's wings? They're... for all intents and purposes, it's wings are missing. The bases are intact, if a little worse for the wear, but the chitin making up the actual wing is very much gone. The little stubs twist pitifully before falling flat again.  
  
The malformed wings are the least of your worries, however, as thick brown-tinted bile is oozing from it's still -open mouth, the troll gurgling atop the examination table. You make sure your gloves are tucked into your lab coat before grabbing a small flashlight and slowly opening the broodmother's mouth. It's jaw goes slack immediately, thin trails of bloody vomit dripping onto your gloves. You supress the urge to recoil and peer into it's throat. What you see is horrible in its plainness. You set down the flashlight and change your gloves, decide that using sopor in this situation would likely be dangerous, and silently apologize as you stick your arm into its mouth. As a glorified syringe jockey, you lack most actual medical tools and are forced to make do with mankind's primary instruments. You're quite certain even dogs get better medical care than this.  
  
After a moment you touch something that very much shouldn't be there. Whispering an apology, you get your fingers around it as best as possible and yank, the troll giving a gurgled screech as you extract the foreign object. Slowly, you work it out of it's mouth and examine it. The sight of it almost makes you want to be sick yourself.

  
A medium-sized, pointed shard of blue chitin, streaked with brown, shines dully in the light.

  
You hurriedly toss the thing in the bio-waste bin and try not to dwell on it. Careful to avoid jostling it, you rinse your patient's mouth out and call someone to transfer it to a recovery comb. The recovery combs are slightly nicer than the brooding caverns thanks to almost never seeing use, and are at the very least dry.  Once there, you carefully insert the sopor IVs, administering a very low dose before you plunk down on the floor in front of the broodmother. It- Tavros, yes that's it's name- seems to have stopped shaking for now, eyes lidded and foggy from sleepiness rather than pain, and you very gently rub its grimy hair.   
  
You consider cleaning it off [a wasted effort, most likely, and more than a little suspicious], or at least finding some way to get the top layer of dirt off it, but eventually reject the idea. The broodmother does not snap or growl at your touch, even as vulnerable as it is alone and restrained before you, and you're quite certain that's what got it in it's predicament now. At least it- Tavros- will be away from the breeding combs for a while; you're confident in your ability to make something up if it's found [not that it's likely to be; a missing broodmother is hardly worth anyone's notice] and it'll likely need some sort of treatment for any cuts or abraisions in its throat anyway. It's lucky to be alive, with the way things are now. You retract your hand and pick yourself up, dusting your labcoat. There are things to be done, even if all they are is to stand around and get ignored.

 

You are a doctor, after all; it's what you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the main reason this fic's been on hiatus so long, in case anyone was wondering.  
> R&R.


End file.
